


Step One: Making The Connection

by mizface



Series: Nature Boy [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale, due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Trope Bingo Round 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:03:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mizface/pseuds/mizface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turnbull took a deep breath, running a hand over his head and then smoothing down his shirt, making sure everything was tucked away, not a hair or appendage out of place, and went to let Frannie in.  He still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to a real date!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step One: Making The Connection

**Author's Note:**

> So many thank yous to omens and akamine_chan for encouragement and beta reading!
> 
> No real WtNV spoilers, just lots of references, and specific references to the dS episode "Mountie Sings the Blues"

RenfieldTurnbull put the finishing touches on the salad, covered the top with a wooden lid etched with runes and darkened with old blood stains, and wrapped the bowl in tin foil before putting it in the refrigerator. He looked around the kitchen, making sure nothing was out of place before moving to the main room of his small apartment.

He gave it the same thorough once-over, fluffing pillows, making sure the window sills had just the right amount and types of dust, and flipping over the mirror by the door. He considered covering the bathroom mirror as well, but shook his head, chuckling at himself. He almost never had any visitors through _that_ portal.

Bloodstone circle freshly polished, table set, dinner in the oven and wine chilling, he sat down on the hard, backless wooden chair by the slightly-open window and let himself relax. It had been a long time since he’d had anyone over. Too long, maybe. He was nervous and excited, and a little fearful. The bright sun shining happily down at his building did nothing to quell his unease. He looked down on the street; a man in a dark suit, half-hidden underneath a tree directly across from his apartment, pretended not to look back. It made Turnbull feel better, this reminder that really, he was never alone.

He stayed there, not watching the man not watching him, for a few happy minutes before standing again, unable to resist checking on dinner one more time. He nearly burned his hand on the oven when a knock at the door startled him. It must be time. Not that he’d really know; he made sure there were no clocks in his home; their moving hands and changing numbers were just too unnerving.

Turnbull took a deep breath, running a hand over his head and then smoothing down his shirt, making sure everything was tucked away, not a hair or appendage out of place, and went to let Frannie Vecchio in. Wonderful Frannie. He still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to a date. A real date! Not that he didn’t secretly consider their luncheon at the station a date, or their excursion to see Tracy Jenkins. But this was different. This was in his home. This was… intimate.

Frannie seemed to realize the importance of the occasion as well; her smile when he opened the door was nervous and a touch shy, things she never was in public. He smiled back, making sure not to show too many teeth, and stepped aside to let her in. The doorway glowed briefly as she entered, then dimmed; Turnbull breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been very disappointing for her to have been found wanting. Well, disappointing for him; excruciatingly, eternally painful for her. But he dismissed the thought from his mind as he took her coat. She was here, and safe for the moment, and that’s what mattered.

Dinner went well. She really liked the salad, and Turnbull was doubly glad he’d had some the corn grown by John Peters (you know, the farmer). Really added a taste and crunch that couldn’t be replicated. Or identified. Next time, if there was a next time, he’d have some of Moonlight All-Night Diner’s pie shipped in. If Frannie liked imaginary corn, she’d _love_ invisible pie. The casserole he’d made was tasty, filling, and had stopped moving by the time he’d gotten it out of the oven. There’d been one moment of panic when Frannie had mentioned that rolls would have been nice, but apparently the wheat and wheat by-product ban wasn’t as heavily enforced here; talking about them didn’t immediately enable the sirens or trigger the spring-loaded manacles on the chairs.

Frannie tried to help with the dishes after they’d eaten, but Turnbull would hear nothing of it. He felt his cheeks redden at the forwardness of the suggestion, however, and his heart jumped a little in his chest, metaphorically speaking. It hadn’t made any sort of physical movement in years.

They sat on his couch as they drank their coffee. Frannie looked at it twice before taking a drink, making him wonder if he’d brewed it too strongly. But no, it was a deep, dried blood brown with a hint of crimson, and a sip revealed just the right hint of mocha and aftertaste of copper.

They never touched, but the conversation had Turnbull all aquiver. He was surprised he hadn’t spilled any of his coffee, he was so excited. The date was going well! Frannie had laughed at his jokes, and a few things that weren’t jokes but well, everyone did that. She’d been appreciative of his cooking. And here they were, talking and sitting close enough that they could, conceivably, touch. He had to make a concerted effort not to reach out with any part of him to touch her. It was, after all, only their first real date.

When the conversation wound down in a mostly comfortable way, Turnbull suggested a walk, but Frannie looked at her watch (Turnbull hoped he’d hidden his flinch well enough) and told him it was late, that she had to be at the station early the next day. Then she _patted his hand_ ; he wasn’t able to stop the sharp intake of breath the feeling of her skin on his elicited. He made himself meet her eyes, and wonder of wonders, she was smiling. When she took her hand back she rubbed her fingers together, and Turnbull brightened, almost literally glowing with delight when he saw they were vaguely damp. He wasn’t the only one who’d felt The Connection, then.

He let her leave, though it was difficult. Only the knowledge that their destinies were now, would be, and always had been intertwined made it possible for him to let her go. Once he was sure she was safely away in a cab (an official Chicago cab, not one of the shoddily disguised ones A Vague, Yet Menacing Government Agency sometimes employed), Turnbull went for a walk. There was no way he’d be able to sleep, not after such an exciting night.

He was fascinated by the scope of Chicago, the claustrophobically-tight buildings, the hard gray pavement and the unnaturally soft, green grass. The sky wasn’t ever the right color, but since it was broken up by so many trees and buildings and those things that weren’t the Void but blocked out the stars in a similar way, he didn’t mind it so much. He still avoided the lake they called Michigan, however, uncertain if he was allowed to know large bodies of water existed. 

He wandered the streets for hours, lost in his thoughts, and sometimes in the city itself. But finally he found his way back to his building. He left a bag of gluten-free donuts in the stoop as he entered the building, along with three pigeon feathers and a small blood sample. Once safely back in his apartment, Turnbull finished cleaning the kitchen, taking care with Frannie’s cup, wrapping it in gauze and sealing it in a plastic bag. He placed it in a box he kept high on a shelf in his closet, along with the fork she’d used at their luncheon at the 2-7, and a napkin from the Music Hall. Keeping the DNA history preserved was an important element in any successful long-term relationship.

Plus, it never hurt to have that kind of evidence, in case the rightness of their union was ever called into question.


End file.
